


Following Fate's Footsteps

by MagdaTheMagpie



Series: Marvel & Magic [8]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fate, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 21:42:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15782682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: Lady Fate sinsongs from the shadows: "Harry and Matt, sitting on a roof, T-A-L-K-I-N-G..."





	Following Fate's Footsteps

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Marvelously Magical Bingo 2018!  
> Square G1: Matt Murdock

“What are you doing here?” Matt says in a low rumble like the approaching storm.

A head turns, slowly, almost lazily, towards him. Matt is ready for anything, and he's not fool enough to believe someone just happened to choose _his_ roof, of all the roofs in New York, for some leisurely star gazing. Luckily, his devil alter-ego hasn't been too badly beaten up lately, so whoever this is, they should be easy to take care of.

“You can see me?”

British by the sound of him. Young, no more than thirty, but weary beyond his years. It's in the tone of his voice, the tilt of his head.

“You didn't answer my question,” Matt remarks and snaps one of his batons out, because after the day he's had, he's just as weary and doesn't have much patience left.

“Whoa there! Take it easy. I was just looking at the city is all. It looks different from here. I'm a tourist, in case you can't tell.”

Matt relaxes. He can't hear any inflection of a lie in his words, his heartbeat is steady and his body temperature constant. Okay, so this idiot really did just happen to choose his roof of all places to sit down. He puts his baton back where it belongs and approaches his unexpected guest.

“Tourists don't usually wander into Hell’s Kitchen,” he says and sits next to him on the roof's edge, letting his feet dangle in the void beneath.

The city is quiet for once. He wishes demons would sleep in tonight, all night, but it's probably too much to hope for. The world doesn't stop spinning just because you're tired of its shit. If anything, it'll spin faster to make you lose all semblance of control.

“Hell's Kitchen?” the stranger laughs, but it tapers off to a stop. “You're serious… This place is really called that? Well, I guess it explains the costume.”

The hand waving dismissively his way tells Matt he means his Daredevil suit. He frowns. It's not a _costume_. If anything, it's battle armor. A horned, blood-red armour. And it was meant to strike fear in people’s heart's, not derisive dismissal.

“You're not very well informed for a tourist.”

Because everyone knows there's a devil haunting the streets of New York. The other man shrugs.

“I prefer to wander. Let my feet, and Fate, take me where they will. I don't have much say in the matter anyway, just the illusion of it.”

Matt's eyebrows shoot up.

“You don't believe in free will? In tracing your own path?”

“Not really, no. Sorry,” he adds when Matt has remained silent for too long.

“I don't understand.”

The only people he has met who held such an opinion were certifiably insane. Yet, this young man had seemed quite normal up to now.

“The very fact I'm sitting here minding my own business, and probably the only person in the whole bloody universe who can see through my cloak just happens to skulk by…” he sighs. “This isn't a coincidence. I literally had more chances to get hit by lightning while winning the lottery.”

Matt frowns. He has no idea what the other man means by seeing through his cloak. As far as he can tell, he's just sitting there for _anyone_ to see. Maybe he is crazy, after all. Maybe his insanity ran deep and slow like the tides of the ocean, not readily visible like it was in most others. But, just to be sure, Matt reaches a hand towards him. The stranger doesn't flinch but tension runs through his body and his breathing hitches almost imperceptibly. Matt would have reached for his hand, but he had been wringing them together for the last few minutes, so he reaches for the man's cheek instead.

He's so surprised at the silky cloth that meets his fingers instead that a quite gasp escapes him. He shifts the material slightly between thumb and forefingers, because the friction of cloth and the movement of air should help him see this barrier, but there is nothing. No spark. Or rather, there is something tangible there that his special “sight” cannot see. There is no fire to it, no life.

“What is this?” Matt asks.

“The Cloak of Invisibility. It's supposed to hide anyone, from anything, even Death himself, and yet…”

“I can't perceive it. At all. It's as if its not even there, but my fingers tell me otherwise.”

“So you see what I mean: meeting you isn't a coincidence. The odds are simply impossible.”

“You’re saying Fate brought us together? That sounds kind of…”

“Corny? Melodramatic? Ridiculous? I couldn't agree more. I'm not claiming to know _why,_ I'm simply stating a fact.”

“You could just walk away,” Matt tries to rationalize.

“Then we'd meet again under some utterly improbable circumstances, again and again, until Fate is done with you.”

“But-”

“It’s happened before. Quite frankly, I've given up trying to fight it. It's easier this way.”

The man next to him looks and sounds so defeated, Matt isn't sure what to do or say. He doesn't _want_ to believe him. He can't imagine living like that: thinking his decisions don't matter, that he is a mere puppet reacting to the pull of a string… Matt likes to think he made a difference in the world, that his choices and decisions were his own, and had an impact. What was the point otherwise? Why go through all the pain and struggles?

“I hope you're wrong,” he finally says.

“I don't think everyone is as badly affected as I am, if that's any consolation. But can you tell me there isn't one single event outside of your power to control that shaped you into what you are today?”

He's looking at his horns, his opaque red eyes, his mouth, the only “real” part of him showing which must have turned into one bitter line.

The truck. The spill of chemicals. The burns. The event that robbed him of his sight and turned the world on fire, turned him into the devil of Hell's Kitchen, made him into who he is today. Had it always been his fate? He nods his head at the stranger.

“Hang on to that feeling, and imagine sensing it with every step you take.”

“I don't think I can. I'd probably go mad.”

“Didn’t you know? We're all a little mad here.”

There is something profoundly wrong with this broken man trying to comfort _him._ Matt wishes he could do the same. If Fate did indeed bring them together, isn't that what is expected of him? But he's not good at this sort of thing. With clients, for his day job, he listens and sympathises and promises to right their wrongs. As Daredevil, he uses his fists. Now, both his skill sets seem inadequate. Foggy would know. He's good with people and would probably have the man laughing and feeling better about himself, about everything, in just a few minutes. That's a real gift. Foggy is like a healing balm. Matt has to stamp down on his urge to call him and tell him to take care of his new friend, but he can't, not when he knows so little about him.

Instead, Matt squeezes his shoulder in support, so he knows he's not alone, that he can see him through the cloak even if the rest of the world can't. Small comfort, but it's a start.

 


End file.
